


wilding

by sewerpigeon



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Romance, Blue Hawke (Dragon Age), Blue-Purple Hawke (Dragon Age), Canon Compliant, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Sex, Loss of Control, Love, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, One Shot, Other, POV Anders (Dragon Age), Pillow Talk, Pining, Possession, Purple Hawke (Dragon Age), Romance, Self-Doubt, Sensuality, Slow Burn, Sort Of, dont tell my mom, i guess, is it still slow burn if its a one shot, like its not super explicit but theres. stuff, mostly - Freeform, tagging is hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:13:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24422584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sewerpigeon/pseuds/sewerpigeon
Summary: Hawke is helping us, you’ve seen that for yourself.This was merely objective fact, but still the mention of Hawke sent heat crawling up Anders’ neck.You are useful to him,Justice would say coldly, Anders wincing further as he heard the echo of his own personal doubts.That is all.  And when you are useful no longer, you will open the door to see him standing beside the Templars.You’re wrong.He is weak, and he makes you weak.Shut up.
Relationships: Anders & Justice (Dragon Age), Anders/Hawke (Dragon Age), Anders/Male Hawke
Comments: 4
Kudos: 41





	wilding

**Author's Note:**

> i spent too much time on this i barely even revised here take it juST take it i have too many thoughts on this game but nothing really new to add to the conversation so just tAKe it

Anders’ back was to the clinic door as the last strings of toxin were extracted from the small boy’s body lying eerily still on his table. The boy’s father had hardly moved since carrying in his son and relinquishing his fate to the mysterious mage offering free healing, in the heart of Darktown of all places. A beacon of hope, the residents had come to see it, in a place so rarely touched by even daylight. Perhaps in Hightown this was how they’d felt about their precious Chantry.

The boy’s eyelids fluttered open, and carefully, with a sharp sob of relief, his father helped him sit up, the boy’s malnourished body making him seem even younger than he already was.

 _Rat poison_ , Anders thought, seething even as he fought against the bleariness of his magical exertions. Mage or no, everyone down here is either a target or collateral. _It’ll never cease to sicken me how they can sit in their lavish estates knowing full-well the suffering under their boots._

As if to correct him, Anders’ mind presented him with Hawke’s face and all the extra time and resources he’d been lending to the Undercity in the past few months since the Deep Roads. He’d reclaimed his family’s estate because it was rightfully his mother’s, not because he felt any excessive self-importance. Anders felt guilty for the previous generalization, but he knew as well as anyone that just because there are exceptions doesn’t mean the greater toxicity doesn’t dominate.

The gratitude in the father’s eyes, his lined expression soft and cloudy with fading sight as the boy gained enough strength to stand, took Anders’ mind off the inhumanity if only for a moment. Maybe he can’t fight for everyone, but he’ll give everything to fight for those he can. Even if the headaches get worse.

As the family of two left the clinic, Anders fought through a momentary fatigue, the efforts of his healing seeming far greater lately, or perhaps just too much on top of his new endeavors in aiding the mage underground. Day and night he was working for the betterment of someone, and he was loath to admit even with the aid of a Fade spirit his body could only tolerate so much.

The voice rumbled in the back of Anders’ mind as it was beginning to so much more often do. _The Templars will only grow stronger while we fight to stay afloat. You cannot tarry with these urchins; it is only a matter of time before one of them betrays you._

Anders screwed his eyes shut, warding off a rising dizziness. _They trust me,_ was all he said in response before the sound of running footsteps intruded upon his thoughts. Ready to defend, Anders whirled toward the sound but relaxed when he recognized Hawke jogging to a halt before him.

“She’s alive,” he panted, flagging a wrinkled paper toward Anders, his features donning a look of equal sadness and relief. “Bethany, she survived.”

Anders let the good news sink in, his adrenaline subsiding. Bethany Hawke had been in the vice grip of the Blight within the Deep Roads, and after finding the Wardens close by in the tunnels there had been nothing for it but to leave it in the hands of the Maker as to whether she would die of the sickness or the Joining. But she’d made it, and this was a pleasant surprise to Anders and was relieved in turn, seeing how it had been his idea to hand Hawke’s sister over to the Wardens. He hadn’t realized just how responsible he’d held himself for her fate.

“That’s wonderful,” said Anders sincerely.

“I think she hates me,” Hawke continued, shaking his head as he looked over the paper that must have been a letter from Bethany. “And I can’t say I blame her; I’ve spent a lot of time wondering if she’d really be better off. But I don’t think I would have been able to live with myself if I hadn’t taken the only chance we had to save her.”

A pained expression clouded Hawke’s features for a beat in which Anders remembered how he had already lost a brother. It was a soft echo of the same haunted look that had wracked Hawke deep in the tunnels when Bethany had collapsed. Much as Anders had hated being in the Deep Roads as well as the thought of running right back into the Grey Wardens, he’d been so stricken by Hawke’s desperation that it had been enough to set aside his differences and seek their aid. 

Hawke again met Anders’ eyes, his tone unfamiliarly grave. “Thank you.” He scoffed, “I can’t even remember if I’ve said that or not.”

He had, but Anders felt no need to say as much.

“If you hadn’t been there, I...” Hawke almost lost himself again to speculation but reeled himself in quickly. “Thank you.”

“I’m glad she’s alright,” said Anders, suddenly feeling oddly exposed beneath the openness of Hawke’s expression. “The Wardens are lucky to have her. I’m just sorry I couldn’t do more to bring her home.”

“It was more than I could do for her. Mother is relieved to hear from her at last, but I know she still resents that I took Bethany with us in the first place. Er, sorry,” Hawke said, cutting himself off, “I—my family problems are nothing for you to worry about. I just—I felt you should be the first to know.”

They had not quite known each other yet a year, but it was still such an unexpected side of Hawke for Anders to see that it was difficult to find his own words. Hawke had shown himself to be quite the quipster, and here he was, stammering and scattered and earnest. It was… endearing.

Hawke carried on, perhaps more on his mind than had at first been apparent. “I’m sorry, I know the Deep Roads weren’t easy for you either. Maybe it wasn’t fair of me to have asked as much of you, but I—I know it must have been hard. I, uh… If you need anything, you—I mean, I am—don’t be afraid to ask.”

“You don’t owe me for anything, if that’s what you think.” Anders shifted his weight. On one hand he wanted the talk to remain lighthearted, but on the other he didn’t want to discredit Hawke’s gratitude. These past few months, Hawke had been carrying a dark cloud around with him; he’d been distracted and jumpy. Now, knowing for certain Bethany would be alright, he was easing back into the Hawke Anders had grown accustomed to.

Awkwardly, Anders offered, “I did it for a friend.” _Too much?_

“Yes, right, no, I—” Hawke licked his lips, straightening his posture as if snapping out of a trance. “As a friend, I just want you to know I’m—I would help, if you, you know, if you need help.”

Anders blinked. “I… Okay, I’ll remember that.”

“Right. Okay. I—Alright.” Hawke gave a conclusive, small salute in departure as he pivoted to leave the clinic, nodding with indiscriminate politeness to the other patients and family members scattered within the room.

Anders watched him leave, eyes not straying from the door frame even after Hawke was long out of sight, thoughts racing. Maker, who had been feeding the hearth? It had become downright arid in here.

There were still clients needing to be seen to, he reminded himself at once, hurrying to keep his thoughts from fixating on Hawke any further.

Anders had to put forth extra effort to give the clients his usual, full attention that they deserved. Just as he was beginning to fall back into step, Justice’s voice came to the front of his mind once more, ominous. _Do not forget our purpose._

* * *

It was impossible to decide if time passing in Kirkwall was moving fast or slow or if Anders’ growing paranoia had any footing in reality. The mage underground was taking up more and more of his time, and he couldn’t be sure if it was Justice steering him away from the clinic or his own busy mind—Was there even a difference? 

Sometimes he was sure there wasn’t. Other times he was not so eager to accept that. He had a duty, one way or another, and as important as his clinic was, the pressures of the Chantry were undoubtedly swelling. Anders had been receiving more requests for help from apostates than patients these days.

Word of disappearances among the mages were more frequent; Justice wasn’t just making him see recrimination where there was none. Even so, the spirit’s hold of Anders’ mind was becoming harder to balance with his own conscience. For every broken leg in Darktown there were three Rites of Tranquility, Justice would insist. For every Templar recruit there were three missing mages. _Illness cannot be stopped,_ he would say. _No_ _matter your efforts, there will always be children who fall, mothers who starve, and addicts who mug. To try and heal them all is a losing battle. But the Templars can be stopped. They must be stopped. While sickness is natural, persecution is a choice. And you must make the choice to oppose it._

 _You don’t think I’m trying?_ Anders would plead, drained and frustrated, his nerves fraying like the weathered ropes of a ship’s sail with each passing day.

_Not as you should. Instead you addle yourself in choosing the more impossible fight for these ragged peasants and miscreants and distractions of that black-haired fool whose face I am tired of seeing in your mind._

_If I begin choosing whose life is worth more_ , Anders would argue to the former point, _then I am no better than the Templars. And neither fight can be fought alone, even as we are. Hawke is helping us, you’ve seen that for yourself._ This was merely objective fact, but still the mention of Hawke sent heat crawling up Anders’ neck.

 _You are useful to him,_ Justice would say coldly, Anders wincing further as he heard the echo of his own personal doubts. _That is all. And when you are useful no longer, you will open the door to see him standing beside the Templars._

_You’re wrong._

_He is weak, and he makes you weak._

_Shut up._

There were times when the conflict within him would take minutes, sometimes even hours out of Anders’ days. More and more he found himself coming to, as if having been unconscious but still upright with one or two confused or worried faces looking up at him. He never had the courage to ask them what he had been saying. 

Anders had been withdrawing from the clinic more and more, taking more time to himself between meetings with the mage underground to force the spirit of Justice back under control. He could not lose himself to this, not now. Not when more people than ever were beginning to count on him. Not when Hawke had begun trusting him to fight at his side more often.

And he had come to admit something about picturing Hawke’s face would help pull him back to earth. It was a draining paradox that much of Anders’ waking thoughts had begun to consist of the stubbled, black-haired, honey-tongued rogue fighter, and in response Justice would take over to berate him for this, but to speak of him brought back the thoughts of Hawke, which would give Anders the strength to subdue the spirit. At least for a while. But even without Justice to do so, Anders would still be ashamed that he could not even find his own source of strength within himself. Was he really so much at Hawke’s mercy? All without Hawke even knowing?

Or maybe he did know. Anders could never tell what signals he was sending off. As the months turned into years he still second-guessed so many of their conversations. Sometimes it was friendly, comfortable, maybe even cordial; other times when the energy between them felt so charged, Anders was afraid to assume it was mutual and more just the strength of his growing desire. Even in his moments of confidence to supply a flirt, the positive nature of Hawke’s responses were either cluelessness, good humor, or, as Anders childishly hoped, the possibility of something deeper.

For a while, Anders had been riddled with guilt each time he pictured Hawke’s face, for right after it would be followed by Karl’s, the way his gently grizzled features had been soft in the towers of the Circle and yet so stern in their shared fire for the mistreatment of their kind. And then he would remember the angry brand into Karl’s forehead in the Chantry, such a bitter irony and a caricature of supposed “peace.” 

He had let Karl down, Anders knew, and he had felt he did so again each time Hawke’s face encroached more and more upon the space Karl had once taken. It hurt to know he had failed Karl and yet found a way to move on. But then, it was a dishonor to Karl’s memory to behave as though he would not want Anders’ happiness, though Anders still strove to believe he even deserved it.

And even if he did, where could he find it? In Hawke’s eyes green like the summer-lit forest when he was making some crack at the Templars in jest or teasing any of his companions? Anders could hardly stand the teasing—or at least, he could hardly stand himself for trying to find more meaning in it than he could be sure there was. In that way, he was more like Justice than he cared to admit.

Between Justice, Hawke, and the rising Templar threat, Anders’ fear of losing himself to one thing or another was nurtured. He was afraid to sleep, for Warden dreams would still take hold when other nightmares did not. But he was afraid to stay awake because he didn’t know how many times his memory would be perforated that day. How long until he was losing days altogether?

There were times, on the darkest of nights, when Anders would consider the worst way out; quickly, though, he would chide himself for even considering the easy path when so many others would be doomed to suffer an even worse fate. His anger with himself and at the injustice of his kind would bring him back from that edge, but again it would tickle the fancy of Vengeance, and Anders would again be clawing to keep in control.

Maybe he should talk to Hawke about this, Anders had begun to think. As they had been spending more time on missions together, outings, or even just check-ins, Anders was realizing that it was not just infatuation with this dark yet bright man that took up his mind, but the knowledge he was truly the person Anders trusted most. Even so, it intimidated him to share his own burdens; Anders was not unaware his fusion with Justice was proving a grave mistake as his sense of control seemed to weaken with each passing day.

Anders found he was hesitant also to come to Hawke, for if he were to see for himself what strength Justice had been gaining, perhaps he wouldn’t have much faith left in Anders after all. Hawke would be disappointed—or worse, turn against him.

Anders couldn’t bear the thought of losing him.

 _He is going to be the death of you,_ Justice would say, _and the death of all mages thus._

At night, Anders’ heart grew twisted and heavy. As a drowning sense of loneliness shrouded him, he secretly apologized to Hawke each night that it was envisioning him so close that would bring Anders enough sense of calm to fall asleep.

* * *

Three years had passed since the Deep Roads when Anders had finally felt sure enough in his suspicions to send for Hawke. They’d each been so busy it had been a few weeks since they’d last spoken, and to see him turn up at Anders’ clinic was both a relief and a stressor of its own. He hadn’t noticed until then Hawke had been letting his hair grow some, but that wasn’t what mattered right now.

Anders explained his involvement with the mage underground, about the free mages helping others escape. Anders had accepted the Templars’ plans for the “Tranquil Solution” were indisputable, but for the first time in having to suggest it to someone without magic gave him a moment’s pause. What if Hawke thought he was crazy? Or worse, what if he was?

“You said you’ve met this Alrik before?” Hawke queried.

Anders clenched his jaw, biting down Vengeance’s already stirring anger. “He was the one to perform the ritual on Karl. I know his work, and I’ve been to the Gallows. This man is a sadist.”

Taking a deep breath, Anders spared a glance toward the door of his quarters and chose to step closer to Hawke. He needed his help, and the desperation eked into his hushed voice, imploring. “There is a secret entrance under the walls of the Gallows. Come with me, tonight, please. If we can prove this, maybe it will finally force the hand of the Grand Cleric herself.”

Hawke appeared to consider the idea for a moment, just long enough for Anders to rapidly replay everything he’d just said in his mind and beg it didn’t make him sound like he has some sort of persecution complex. He knew this conspiracy was true; he just couldn’t prove it yet. The trick was in convincing someone _before_ he had the evidence to help him _get_ the evidence.

“Well, you certainly can’t go alone,” Hawke said, a playful smirk betrayed by the determination in his eyes.

The intense and unwavering concern blooming across Hawke’s features was a welcome surprise. A physical weight lifted from Anders shoulder and relocated to his chest. How dare he to have expected so little of Hawke, even after all he’s already risked to help Anders and the mages. _Never again,_ Anders decided. _Hawke’s worth more than doubt and insecurity._

Justice pressed against the edges of Anders’ mind. _Or perhaps that’s just how he’s meant to gain your trust before leading you right into the Templar’s grasp._

Anders ignored the spirit, and allowed himself a moment of weakness. “You are the one bright light in Kirkwall,” he said earnestly, admiringly, and he couldn’t have imagined the softening in Hawke’s own expression, but he hurried to return to the task at hand. “Come back to the clinic after nightfall. There is a way into the tunnels here in Darktown.”

* * *

He came to with what felt like a blast of cold water. A roaring Anders hadn’t been aware of until it was gone gave way to a silence broken only by the settling of dust over rubble and the whimpers of a frightened girl scrambling to flee from underneath him. Doesn’t he know this girl? _She looks familiar. Wait, the Templars… That’s right. She’s a mage. We came to help. Why is she looking at me like that?_

“Get out of here,” said a familiar voice, and as the girl ran on trembling legs Anders realized he couldn’t move; something was restraining him, and for a moment he felt panic—the Templars had bound him! But no, no, it was warm… Arms. Arms?

“It’s over, Anders,” the voice spoke again, quiet but still echoing underground. _Hawke,_ Anders realized. Hawke was holding him… No, Hawke was holding him _back._

Wait, where were the Templars?

All around him. Like a curtain being drawn to reveal a stage, the scene of the cavern revealed itself to Anders. The tarnished armor was still plainly that of the Templars, now having become metal caskets for the lifeless men and women inside of them. The smell of blood hit him harder than it should have after all he’d seen and treated as a healer and a fighter—as if it was more potent when he didn’t remember how it got there.

“Oh, Maker, no…” Anders breathed, the scattered jigsaw pieces falling into place. The girl had just disappeared from view in the tunnels, and Hawke released his hold on Anders, tentative, and appraised him with a look of stern worry and fear—though whether it was _for_ Anders or _of_ Anders he could not be certain.

“I almost… If you hadn’t been here, I…” He thought he was going to be sick. Anders seemed to have been watching from some place very far away as he took off alone through the rest of the tunnels before his legs could give out beneath him, not sparing a glance back, for he feared what he might see in the others’ faces almost more than what he had done.

 _What are you doing?_ he asked Justice.

_Only what you will not._

* * *

The dash back to Darktown had been a blur, though Anders couldn’t be sure if it was due to his inner torment or if Justice had truly been the one walking them home. The clinic was sparse, cases having grown fewer and fewer these last three years, almost as if his patients were realizing he was able to give them less and less time. When he’d thought about it, it did fill him with deep regret, but as night fell upon this dark day all Anders could picture was the face of the young girl who’d been cowering at his mercy, the blood of the Templars from Anders’ hands dripping off her face.

 _Demon_ , she’d said. That much had come back to him as Anders numbly started rummaging through belongings littered about his private room at the clinic. _Trash, keep, trash, trash, keep…_ Damn it, did any of it matter? What did he deserve to call his own if not even his own mind? What kind of healer can’t stop himself from killing? He didn’t remember losing control. He didn’t remember killing the Templars. He only remembered the anger. If Hawke hadn’t been there... 

At the thought of him, again Anders was wracked with despair. Hawke had stood up for Anders against the others when they had all thought him mad, dangerous even for having accepted a spirit to inhabit his body. He’d had such faith in Anders, convincing him even more than Anders could himself that he was capable enough to keep in control. He’d had no grounds; just trust. 

And yet, here was Anders: a monster. He’d proved Hawke wrong, and however hard it was to accept he was losing control, it was even harder to accept he had disappointed the one person Anders had realized he’d come to care about more than anyone else in the world.

And even if Hawke might have felt anything back for Anders before, it was surely gone now. Perhaps it was petulant to even think of that in the wake of his actions, but he could not ignore it either, however insistent Justice was.

Anders could sense someone’s approach behind him, but he was spent. Even if it was the Knight-Commander herself coming to behead him, Anders made no move to fight back.

But it wasn’t the Knight-Commander; Hawke’s voice snuck past the remnants of what remained of Anders’ guard. “We need to talk about it.”

“We were wrong,” Anders said after a beat. He gathered his strength to rise from the floor. “I’m a monster. Justice and I… They were right all along; this was a mistake. And now look at what we’ve become. You were the only thing that kept me from killing that girl, a mage—exactly who I’ve been working to save!” 

“You’re right.” The blatant truth smarted. “You almost killed that girl. And what are you planning to do about it, run away?” challenged Hawke, indicating the pile of belongings Anders had just been sorting. “Your cause is everything to you—or have I really been so wrong about you, that you would abandon this the moment it starts becoming too hard?”

Anders winced; a kick in the head would have hurt less. “No,” he said, feeling like a child being chided in the schoolyard. “I could never abandon this. I don’t know, maybe I thought—” 

With a sigh Anders deflated and sat upon the mattress and began to confess, voice hardly above a whisper: “This anger—his? ours?—it’s been getting stronger. There have been more blank spaces in my memory; it’s getting hard to keep track of time anymore. And today…” The girl’s face flashed through Anders’ mind again, sharp and fast as lightning. He shuddered. “If you weren’t there, I wouldn’t even have known what had happened until it was too late. How can I still call myself a healer? How can I prove that mages should not be feared when I am the very thing the Templars say we are?”

“You can still prove them wrong,” Hawke said, taking a step closer. “Magic _is_ dangerous, but by showing them even something as powerful and unpredictable as this—” he made a non-committal gesture toward Anders to indicate Justice—“can be controlled, it will show the Templars their fear has never been enough to justify their onslaught. And you can,” he added. “Control it, that is.”

Anders felt as if he’d aged a thousand years. “He’s just… It’s so strong.”

“Then become stronger.” Hawke crossed the rest of the distance between them to crouch before Anders, taking firm but gentle hold of his shoulders as if to shake him. He didn’t shake him, but Anders thought it may have been preferable to this scrutiny, hard but not unkind. “You _did_ stop,” he said, lowering his voice as Anders braved meeting his eyes. “The girl is _alive_. For now, that’s what matters most. But as far as controlling this spirit, we need to figure out something better.”

 _We?_ With his hands still on Anders’ arms, Anders was beginning to find it hard to breathe as deeply as his body would have liked. Hawke’s was a touch Anders craved night after night—sometimes the ache of want was so much it kept him awake, and sometimes the peace he found in imagining Hawke’s face helped him sleep, and now to feel such deliberate contact for the first time...

 _Maker, this really isn’t the time!_ he scolded himself, forgetting everything for a moment but their proximity.

“I’ve seen who you can be in spite of him, and I’ll be damned if I were to just sit back and watch you lose yourself without doing anything to stop it.”

That’s who Hawke was; he always had to _do_ something. His tone shifted from sternness to something softer, almost imploring. “I will help you. If you need my help to do this, I will help you. But I will only fight for you as long as I know you’re fighting for yourself.” 

They took in each other’s faces for another heavy beat before Hawke withdrew his hands and immediately changed the subject. He pulled a damp, folded piece of paper from his pocket. “Look, you were right about Ser Alrik, about the Tranquil Solution, but it was his idea alone.”

“Rejected by the Divine _and_ Meredith?” Anders said, effectively distracted. “This is… unexpected. Maybe the Grand Cleric will be more reasonable than I thought.” It was hope—a piece of it he never would have gained if not for Hawke. _Damn him,_ he thought, relenting as he looked up at Hawke once again to find his eyes had never strayed. _And bless him, and thank the Maker for his excruciating patience._ _I don’t deserve him._

“Thank you,” he said simply, faintly. “I’ll... think about what you said.”

Their gazes burned into the other’s a moment longer until Hawke suddenly stood, nodding once in affirmation, then left.

* * *

It would remain fairly quiet in Kirkwall for the next couple of weeks, but smaller incidents would crop up in which Anders had finally graduated from being surprised to finding security and encouragement in the knowledge that Hawke was behind him, believed in him, in the mages. Somehow, Anders had done something right, or at least well enough, to have gained the confidence of such a man. It strengthened Anders, and he’d even begun to feel a greater sense of control over Justice in spite of the spirit’s protests and accusations becoming more vehement.

Anders would not let his thoughts of Hawke be poisoned.

There was more to it than just Hawke’s unyielding belief in Anders—although this was no small thing, having begun to unwittingly teach Anders how to start seeing the strength he still had left. Hawke was a man who fought for everyone, often to the precipitous point of taking on more than he could handle—but even then, his trust in his close companions at his side was assured, and somehow he always managed to pull it off.

Hawke offered his help indiscriminately, from beggars to prisoners to nobles to mages. And it was nothing to do with making a legacy or inflating his status; those things were merely side effects that he would then turn around and distribute to others in greater need. That was not to say Hawke didn’t take some pleasure in the finer things, thrilled to have such big bookcases and comfortable clothes, but any flashing of his ego was largely facetious. Hawke was no mage, but there was no doubt something about him was magic.

He was respected and fancied and even hated by some who refused to believe such a man could exist in earnest, without agenda. What was his dirty little secret? some surely asked. Perhaps, Anders supposed, their suspicions were right in part; Hawke’s efforts to aid the mages remained discreet, though not altogether unnoticed. But it was likely most people turned the other way with the intent of wanting to stay in his good graces, should they ever require his help in their turn.

Anders was not so proud of his obsession with Hawke—even in his dreams had Hawke made himself at home. Sometimes they were pleasant, exciting, warm, safe. Waking from these dreams would provide the reprieve one gets when lost between the world of sleep and awake, when blissfully nothing existed but the fading sensation of Hawke’s breath in his ear. But other nights, when not in the grip of the Warden dreams he would never escape no matter how far he ran from Fereldan, Anders would find himself standing over Hawke’s broken body, cold, in the rain, unable to remember inflicting the wound that turned the water running from his hands red. He chose not to fall back asleep after waking from these dreams.

Anders knew he was not alone in his admiration of Hawke, and he’d have liked to believe Hawke had enough sense to recognize a dead-end when he saw it, so Anders often found himself second-guessing what he thought to be… _something_ between them. He’d been growing frustrated, in fact, unsure if Hawke was playing some sort of game or if he was sincerely oblivious to what he was doing to Anders. 

There was something in the way they would exchange meaningful glances, standing closer than necessary but not quite touching, casual familiarity in their conversation one minute then a tender word the next, followed by a knowing look; charming, as one said something that inevitably made the other blush, or at least redirect his gaze as they returned to their original conversation as if nothing had happened. It was like they were each sending up signal flares just as the other was looking away.

Maybe Anders was imagining this. Or maybe they were both just really, really bad at this. Whatever “this” was. If “this” even existed. Regardless, there was as much comfort in knowing Hawke was, at the very least, on Anders’ side as there was agony in wanting so, so much more.

But Anders knew this was selfish; Hawke was already in enough danger just keeping Anders’ company, and all he’d been risking for the mages as a whole on top of that… It was a double-edged sword, for Hawke’s very lack of regard for such personal risk made him all the more desirable—not to mention making him a great source of stress.

Anders sat at the desk in the backroom of his clinic. It had been slow the past few days, both with patients and the mage underground, but not so much in Anders’ own mind. It seemed Templars practically swung by his doorstep every day. Anders’ nerves had been on edge the most on days where nothing happened; it just meant more time for the next blow to gain momentum.

Amidst his own web of growing concerns, Justice would not stay unheard either. _Your obsession with him is compromising your integrity._

Anders’ patience had been growing thin—though it was hard to be sure if it was with Justice or himself. _He is with us. Why can’t you understand how invaluable he’s become to our cause?_

_You say he fights for the mages but ignore how he hides from the gazes of the ones we must defeat._

_We’ve all been keeping our heads down, now more than ever. Your anger has already endangered us and the mages more than once._

_Our anger. Our rightful anger._

Anders clenched his jaw, fist tightening around the quill with which he’d decided to put his thoughts to paper; a way to keep his ideas and arguments in order and present them effectively—as well as keeping them _away_ from Hawke. It wasn’t quite working.

_You have no need of him._

_I’m still a man, Justice!_ It took everything to keep himself from slamming the desk. _I know you’ll never understand, but a person can want more than one thing, for himself and for others._

_But to divide your focus will keep you from accomplishing anything. Do not the lives of hundreds of mages surpass the importance of your personal dalliances?_

The catch was as Anders’ anger grew, so in turn did Justice’s and there would come a point when there was no longer a difference. These days it seemed they neared that point ever sooner, so Anders thought part of maintaining control was to avoid that point altogether; so far so good—until the next fight with Templars, anyway. Anders did his best to avoid those thoughts too.

“What are you doing?”

Hawke had come by often enough that the aids knew to let him through but not so often as to be expected. Anders quickly gathered himself and stood to greet him.

“I’ve been trying to write down my arguments,” he said, gesturing to the scattered pile of scribbles and diagrams and disorganized bullet points that he would later revise and sort into something a little more cohesive. “To try and convince people who still turn a blind eye to the mages’ plight that the Circle is abusive and unjust.” He sighed, wistful. “Maybe there’s a way to make them see without force. The rejection of the Tranquil Solution was a hopeful sign, but even so I’m afraid things will continue to get worse.”

“Is the bowl of milk by the door meant to help with that?” said Hawke.

Anders relaxed a little, even flashed a smile as he shrugged. “I miss having a cat around. Although the refugees have probably scared them all off. Or… eaten them.” He shook his head dismissively. “Was there... something I could do for you?” It was early enough in the day that Anders wondered if there was another mission to be undertaken so soon, and he regretted to realize he was not so eager after what had happened last time. But if Hawke needed him, he would be there.

The discomfort must have shown on Anders’ face; Hawke softened a little. “Just… checking in. We’ve had what’s felt like downtime enough lately; I’ve been catching up with everyone.” His voice lowered, applying sincerity to the question, “How have you been?”

“Since we… removed Ser Alrik,” Anders reported with tactful evasion, “the mage underground has less to be afraid of in the tunnels. But it seems the Templars are multiplying by the day, getting closer. I barely managed to slip out the back the other day.”

“They’re hunting you?” Hawke asked, alarmed.

“Not me specifically,” Anders replied, adding in flimsy jest, “Not yet, anyway.” He had not expected to find himself soothing Hawke’s worry, but secretly he took guilty pleasure in seeing the concern on his face. “But the patrols are getting awfully close for comfort. It’s been… tedious.”

“Do you think it’ll be safe to stay here?”

Anders’ did not respond right away; his shoulders fell as he observed the few patients being tended to out in the clinic. “I haven’t been getting as many clients lately. Maybe that’s a good thing—but I haven’t been spending much time with the ones I do have.” He looked back over his shoulder toward the work-in-progress manifesto. “We’ve been keeping ourselves busy.”

Hawke gave a thoughtful nod as if he appreciated the information, but it wasn’t really an answer to his question.

“I suppose I should—er, I’ve been meaning to thank you, really,” Anders continued, turning to face Hawke once more. Hawke shifted his weight, and, under his open appraisal, Anders was already forgetting what he had started to say and glanced aimlessly about the room. He had been careful to stand just beyond arms-length, for he couldn’t be sure the temptation to reach out wouldn’t be too much. 

“All you’ve done for the mages,” he continued, “for me, it…” He took a deep breath, speaking carefully, hopefully. “A day will come when people like your sister will be able to share the streets with people like you.”

Hawke’s lip quirked, faintly mischievous. “What about people like you?” he ventured, taking a step closer.

Anders’ pulse quickened, but even as the warmth began to spread over his skin, he found himself looking down again, unable to push back the incessant uncertainty both he and Justice continued to supply him, even in moments of silence. “You have honored me with so much trust, even seeing what I can—what I’m—what I’ve become. And I’ve been doing everything I can to make sure I earn that trust, to keep control. I have been… trying—to restrain myself.”

The words tiptoed from Anders’ mouth, taking on more than one meaning as he watched Hawke take another step forward, then another, Anders’ heart jumping in turn as though the two were mechanically connected. “But I don’t think I’ll always have the strength to hold back. Sometimes the pull is so strong, I’m afraid I... won’t be able to resist forever.”

Hawke stopped, tantalizingly close, and Anders forced himself to meet his eyes; they were alight in a way that wasn’t a reflection of the daylight seeping through the dust-caked glass. Hawke’s voice was low in his throat, and he spoke slowly, sending a shiver through Anders’ spine: “Sometimes it’s better to just… give in.”

So he did.

Overcome, Anders pulled Hawke into a kiss he’d been dreaming of for three years, closing the space between them hard and fast. Blood rushed to his head, inciting a soft moan as Hawke kissed him back with equal fervor. It was a stumbling passion, the kind that tripped your feet as you sought to drink deep. Anders practically sent them barrelling into the wall as Hawke reached a hand to cup the back of Anders’ head to drink even deeper.

_Maker, if it could just stay like this..._

It came fast as lightning and so too began to fade, but like the thunder towed behind they drug out the final seconds, catching breaths between kisses that rose gently to the surface and fizzled out so that only their foreheads touched.

“I’m not quite sure what that means,” Hawke said, voice breaking on the first word. “I feel like I’ve been getting a lot of mixed signals from you lately.”

Anders laughed not so much at the joke but more so that he was giddy; relief could have sunk him to his knees. In the immediate intoxication he confessed, “I don’t think I would have ever been ready to die without doing that.”

“That’s not your plan now, is it?” Hawke cracked a cheeky grin. “To run off and die on me?”

Anders was unable to return the smile as he regained himself, remembering who and where they were, what they were doing, warning alarms and celebratory bells alike creating a light-headed cacophony between his ears. Anders grew sober, somber. “Be careful,” he whispered, hands still on either side of Hawke’s face. “You’ve fought so hard to gain the trust your name holds in Kirkwall. To be with me would be to abandon all of that. We’d be hunted, hated, never a chance at living a normal life.”

With reticent anguish, Anders withdrew from the embrace. “With Justice, I had believed this part of my life was over. I was willing to accept that. I was ready; the ugliness of my world will only grow darker and should never be anyone’s but mine to bear. But you, Hawke…” His voice became unsteady. “You have a chance at anything—the world still lies at your feet. I can’t give you that. I can’t give you freedom. And I can’t ask you to give it up.”

Legs filled with lead, Anders made a decision and gently herded Hawke toward the entrance before he’d had a chance to respond. “If your door is open tonight, I will come to you,” Anders said, stepping back inside the room. “If not, I will know you took my warning at last.” 

And he closed the door between them.

* * *

The streets of Hightown were never quite as frightening at night as in the day; there may have been more scoundrels, but there were fewer passersby overall to remain wary of. But fear still struck Anders into a cold standstill on his way to Hawke’s estate, but not of the Templars—rather, it was the macabre visions Justice had begun to inflict: mages and Templars alike, bleeding in the streets; Anders standing helplessly, far away as fewer and fewer spells were cast below. Behind it all the Chantry bore an aura of an unholy light, and standing at the bottom of the steps was Hawke overseeing the bloodshed.

 _Stop it!_ Anders ordered the spirit.

 _You are a fool who cannot afford to waste what precious time remains._ The images shifted to Hawke standing at his side and Anders doubling over to be swallowed by clouds like tar that shrouded his vision, his mind, the stench of darkspawn and the dank underground curling into his nose and threatening to make him sick, all while his limbs began to carry him toward a yawning cavern. From within the cavern were screams, and underneath it all was a curious tune.

 _Do not forget: soon too will come our Calling_ , warned Justice.

 _I haven’t forgotten._ Anders took a deep breath as he came back to himself, straightening his posture in an alley of Hightown. The silence of the city was deafening after such vile waking dreams. _Why are you doing this?_

_I will not stand to watch you stray from our path only to be called to your death having changed nothing._

_I know what lies ahead,_ Anders insisted angrily. _But I will not let you take this from me; I have so little left to remind me I am human beneath it all. I do not belong to you._ But he could hardly convince himself of that as Anders came to Hawke’s front door, feeling both an intruder and a beggar; a vagrant finding shelter, lighting a fire for warmth only to have it burn everything down around him.

But for now the fire was contained within the hearth and cast an amber veil around all the shapes of Hawke’s room, the door wide open. Anders paused before entering, taking in the sight of Hawke standing before the fire: arms crossed, his expression inscrutable behind the display of shadows dancing over his features. Hawke was not an imposing figure, but Anders was used to seeing him in armor that, while light enough to allow for flexibility, still added weight to his frame. Here, in elegant but plain finery, he seemed small. But Anders did not mistake this for vulnerability.

Hawke practically jumped at Anders’ approach as the mage came to a stop at a comfortable distance. “You’re here,” he said, keeping his voice controlled as he turned to face Anders. “I wasn’t sure you would come.”

A wry grin cracked Anders’ facade. He almost hadn’t had the choice. “Justice doesn’t approve of my obsession with you. He thinks you’re a distraction.” _To put it mildly._ He stepped closer. “It is one point on which we disagree.”

“Well, if you hadn’t come, I would have been out looking for you.” It was a rare display of seriousness, almost severity from Hawke that sowed a thrill in Anders’ core—but still he hesitated. He couldn’t believe Hawke understood how far the Templars were willing to go, what might happen if they ever learned just how involved he had gotten with the apostates. He was not exactly a careful man, but nor was Hawke stupid; Anders just needed to know what this meant. 

“Are you sure you want me here?” Anders asked, a nagging battle of reason and desire ever raging in the back of his mind. “Sometimes I can’t help but wonder if it’s just been a game. That was how we played it at the Circle—it gave the Templars too much power if they knew there was something you couldn’t stand to lose.”

The enormity of the mere suggestion caused the floor to sway briefly under Anders’ feet. His voice wavered, but he took a step forward and forced the words to make sure Hawke would not be mistaken. “It would _kill me_ to lose you.”

Hawke stepped closer, patient but certain, looking as if he were merely waiting for Anders’ own certainty to catch up. “I don’t think promises have a place in Kirkwall,” he mused, reaching his thumb and forefinger to gently guide Anders’ chin towards him. He wore a sad smile but warm too as he leaned close enough for his words to brush against Anders’ lips just as they left his own. “But don’t think you’re gonna get rid of me that easily.”

Every bone in Anders’ body ached as he tore himself away, bleeding to watch Hawke’s face fall before he turned to walk back toward the door. His steps were slow, measured, for he couldn’t fully trust his legs wouldn’t give from beneath him if he wasn’t careful.

The door was built to open into Hawke’s room, and the iron hinges protested as Anders’ hand slowly began to close it.

In front of him.

His palm lingered a moment further at the lock as he slid the deadbolt in place, then Anders turned back around to face Hawke and braced himself against the wood behind him.

Hawke retraced Anders’ footsteps toward the door, matching his previous speed that now seemed like lifetimes before Hawke was standing in front of him once again. Anders could watch his chest move quicker as his breaths became shallow, not registering the way his own were a perfect echo. Like a circuit, electric energy blossomed the moment Hawke was close enough to touch—Anders could practically hear the static as Hawke leaned in. Anders’ hand rose to caress his jaw, the movement not feeling his own; but he knew this was _his_ —this was one thing that separated him from Justice, and he could not even abide by his own warnings because in his desperation this became a matter of self-preservation, of needing to hold on to the one thing that kept him sane, however crazy it drove him.

And there was no more reason to resist.

If their embrace earlier was like lightning, this kiss was like the fire it struck in the forest, slow at first but spreading with rapid fluidity until it was all-encompassing, and Anders would have gladly welcomed being burned alive. Hawke brought a hand to Anders’ waist and in one motion pressed into him against the door, slotting a knee between his thighs as naturally and intuitively as Anders had slid the deadbolt home. He was happy to help Hawke scramble to unfasten the buckles and straps of his outer layers, as was only fair seeing as Hawke had less to begin with.

Throwing the heavy clothes to the floor, Hawke took full advantage of how much easier it was to run his hands over Anders’ frame, eliciting from him a needy gasp as they breached the hem of his undershirt, fingertips digging deep into the flesh and scoring hard lines that were sure to leave spotty bruises. Anders had already been trying to drive his hips against Hawke’s thigh between his legs. They traded huffs and groans, taking the other’s breath just to heave it back into the other’s lungs.

By the time Hawke had begun dragging Anders over to the bed, they had stripped down to their bare chests, and Anders practically fell on top of him upon reaching the mattress. Skin to skin, the feeling of their lungs filling against the other flowed like some kind of undertow, an unsteady tide, waves against a hull, rocking in time with their hips searching for some kind of friction.

_He is going to have you killed._

Anders only heard the spirit as if he were far away. His voice was always so loud and domineering; it had long been made clear Justice would never accept Hawke, would never stop trying to overshadow Anders’ love for him with fear and mistrust and doubt, but here in this closeness, this urgency, Anders kissed Hawke harder in both defiance of the spirit and in pure hunger for the man striving to keep Anders as close as possible with every limb bracing him from underneath.

_He’s what’s keeping me alive._

They fell into each other and around each other and with every movement they sought deeper; every moan, every kiss, every sigh, every touch and taste of their bodies became an offering to a deity that had never existed. They were hands and they were mouths and they were nothing and they were each other, and everything became even hungrier, needier. Every inch of themselves that could be spared became sealed together with the sticky damp of their skin, whole bodies writhing and twisting in a desperate rhythm that shifted between deliberate and animalistic. 

Anders grunted with each thrust, his mouth vibrating the crook of Hawke’s neck as he arched underneath Anders, the cotton tie Hawke had pulled from his hair still in the hand that white-knuckled the sheets. Nothing mattered, there was no Circle, there were no blood mages, no Templars, no Justice, no before and no after. The world was no bigger now than the space their two bodies filled as they went from making love to _fucking_ to chase a finish, Anders striving like a dying man making up for lost time. And he was, in a way; he had felt himself slipping day by day, leaving pieces of himself behind in a trail of breadcrumbs that lead back to a life he couldn’t live in again. But to feel this, to have _this_ , the two of them pushing and pulling themselves into each other as if they could stop time by crushing it between them and forming a barricade against the rest of the world so that all they had was this— _this_ was like finding his way back home.

Hawke’s rhythmic moans had broken and spilled over into a single loud, guttural, primal cry as he bucked himself back into Anders, the throes of his orgasm around Anders’ cock pushing him over the edge right after. Their sounds blended into a gratifying, sexy sort of duet as they pulled each other closer than possible as the heavy waves of pleasure rolled over and between them until finally receding and leaving the muscles in their legs weak. Anders was grateful there was no reason to stand up right away. Hawke’s throat had raked itself raw from all his noises so that he merely squeaked out a final breath as Anders pulled out to lie beside him.

Panting, their heavy-lidded, pupil-blackened eyes took in every flush of the other’s skin, every sheen of sweat, every underlying scar they each bore of a thousand single stories. Anders rested a palm on Hawke’s cheek, and as their breathing slowed and the afterglow settled into their muscles and bones, they found themselves beginning to laugh, senseless. They didn’t want to consider anymore words; they didn’t want to consider anything that might shatter this respite except watching the other fall asleep.

Anders didn’t dream that night at all.

* * *

The fire had long died down past embers in the night, but Anders woke before more than the milky twilight of dawn could eke in through the windows. It was enough to give shape to Hawke lying next to him—also awake, on his side, looking at Anders.

So it hadn’t been a dream.

Bleary but having found a sense of peace he hadn’t known in ages, Anders lifted himself onto his elbow and leaned toward Hawke to brush his cheek with the backs of his knuckles, the room so quiet the scrape of the stubble against his skin could be heard.

“I love you,” he breathed after a moment, pulling his hand back and resting back into the pillows. “I’ve been holding back from saying that; you should have a normal life, not be tied down to a fugitive with no future. But I don’t ever want to leave you.”

“So don’t.” Hawke reached his own hand out to take hold of Anders’, their fingers interlacing as he said more seriously, “Don’t leave.”

Anders searched his face in the dim light, taken aback for a moment as Hawke’s meaning set in. “You would have me living here, with you? Do you mean that?”

“You’ve told me yourself the Templars have been closing in around the clinic. Why make me worry more than I have to?”

Touched, Anders smiled and tried to match his playful if groggy tone. “You would stand up and tell the world, the Knight-Commander to her face that you love an apostate? That you would stand beside him?”

Hawke returned the smile and responded by pulling their clasped hands to his lips to kiss Anders’ wrist, sighing against his fingers, “If I could have it, I would keep you right here until the day we died.”

Anders’ heart had taken flight but he felt the threat of it falling as he shifted closer to Hawke. “You aren’t worried about keeping… An abomination so close to you?” He swallowed, shaking his head absently as best he could lying down. “Do you really still have so much faith in me?”

He could have imagined Hawke was sick of having to reassure Anders that he knew what Anders was and chose him anyway, but Hawke never made any indication that he felt such impatience—at least not in that regard. Now, he retracted his hand from the grasp of Anders’ and rested it on his cheek, the pad of his thumb gently running over the bone. Hawke’s eyes did not shy away from Anders’, wandering over his face as though it were a painting he’d never seen before and wanted to take in all its novelty. Anders had almost forgotten he had asked a question until eventually Hawke withdrew his hand and began to speak low, his voice sleep-caked, still gravelly from the night’s exertions.

“I’ve always liked to place my trust in the things I know to be true,” Hawke began. “Faith has never come easy for me because it means trusting in what you _don’t_ know, even more so in the things you don’t understand. Will I ever understand what it is to befriend a Fade spirit trapped in a corpse and then invite him to share your body? No. And I have no way of knowing what it will do to you. I don’t know for certain that you will always be able to control it. But I desperately want to believe it. 

“Really faith is just a polite word for desperately wanting something. It comes from a place of need; a _need_ to make sense of the senseless, a _need_ for the best possible outcome. There is an inherent selfishness in faith, but I don’t think that’s a bad thing—it’s the kind of selfishness people need to survive. It’s no different than knowing you have to eat anyway, so why not choose the foods you enjoy? Even if those foods aren’t always the best for you; but sometimes a moment of indulgence is worth the risk of long-term consequences.”

Hawke inhaled deeply before propping himself up onto his elbow, leaning over Anders to mirror their positions from just moments before. “So, I guess by that logic, for better or for worse, yes, I have faith in you.”

Hawke bent as comfortably as he could until he had to slide himself half on top of Anders, elbows bracing his frame on either side, brushing noses and placing deliberate kisses over his cheeks, then either side of his mouth, all the while his thumbs stroking the hair at Anders’ temples. Anders might have been able to die before, but he could really die now.

“For all the Chantry’s worth, they’ve never gotten through to me” Hawke said, the words warm and humid across Anders’ lips, the mage’s eyelids fluttering at such a modest intimacy. “But you… You’ve got me believing in all sorts of things.”

Anders couldn’t help but muffle a laugh, running his hands up Hawke’s sides and over his chest, past his shoulders and clasping them behind Hawke’s neck. “And they say I’m the preachy one.”

**Author's Note:**

> and then nothing else ever happened. the end.
> 
> im on social media as @sewerpigeonart!


End file.
